


your hair was long when we first met

by amillionsmiles



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: EIGHT YEARS LATER, F/M, Pining, Post-Canon, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-30 18:07:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12114285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amillionsmiles/pseuds/amillionsmiles
Summary: Pidge's hair grows with the seasons.So do Lance's feelings.





	1. SUMMER

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Когда мы впервые встретились, твои волосы были длинными](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17047067) by [timmy_failure](https://archiveofourown.org/users/timmy_failure/pseuds/timmy_failure)



> idk, man. this is mostly an excuse for me to write pining Lance, but I'm also a sucker for pairings with ~History~ so. here we go! 
> 
> also, atmospherically, this was heavily inspired by future fics I've read for a totally different fandom: satoshi/mayaka from hyouka. something about their dynamic and the longing made me go "what if?" for pidge and lance, so. just a little author's tidbit, I guess! :)

_SUMMER_

*

The barbecue smells heavenly.

Lance holds his beer bottle loosely between thumb and forefinger, raising it to his lips as he surveys the yard.Cheesy tiki torches jut from the grass, to be lit up later.Over by the fence, Sara, their sales manager (his superior) oversees the grill, auburn hair tied in a messy bun.The company party is in full swing, porch door squeaking open and closed behind him as his coworkers flip flop between enjoying the muggy summer air outside or the cool respite indoors.

It’s not where he thought he’d be, three years after returning.“Sales rep” is quite a ways off from “paladin of Voltron.”But Lance has always been good at talking himself up; after jetting across half the universe convincing foreign species to join up in the Alliance, getting some wary investors to buy into the latest tech product is a walk in the park.He’s back on Earth and on his feet.That’s what counts.

There’d been a moment, in the brief shock and stardom that followed their return, where he’d thought about writing a book or becoming some sort of public figure.Live it up in the lights, the buzz, the action.But once he’d gotten his land legs again, he’d quickly realized that he craved some sort of normalcy.Keith could keep exploring, searching for some final answer on _family_ and _home._ Lance had always known where his was.

Still.He misses it, sometimes—playing the hero.Every once in a while he gets recognized, feels the old fire catch in his chest, the burst of purpose and pride.Most of the time, though, it’s just a handshake that lingers a beat too long, a squint of the eye: “You look familiar.”Or nothing at all.The media machine lumbers on, its eyes on the next big thing.The world keeps turning.

The Garrison had given them some money for their troubles, no small amount.Hunk is using his to get through culinary school, with plans of opening an award winning restaurant down the line. Lance socked his away, waiting to use it on something big.He isn’t sure just what, yet.

“Lance!” Somebody claps his back, startling him out of his thoughts.He turns to find Jeremy, black hair a fuzzy cloud on his head, teeth flashing in a wide grin.

“Enjoying yourself?” asks his fellow sales rep.

“Yeah, this is great,” jokes Lance, nodding toward where someone has just knocked over one of the pink plastic flamingoes.“Work hard, play hard, exactly my style.”

Jeremy laughs.“Hey, let me introduce you to some people. You already know the whole sales team, of course, but you should meet some of the techies before you start. That way you’ll know whose brain to pick when you’re trying to come up with selling points.”

Shrugging, Lance follows Jeremy indoors. Straightaway, the blast of air conditioning hits him, cooling the sweat gathered on his skin.Friendly chatter bubbles from the living room, where people huddle on couches or stand leaning against the wall.The soccer game is playing on the TV—Lance checks the score, 1 to 0, before chasing Jeremy’s palm frond patterned shirt into the kitchen.

It’s quieter, here, the noise from the other room faded to a dull hum.Two people stand by the kitchen island, their conversation punctuated by the periodic crunch of chips as they take turns dipping into the guacamole.The man is tall, with thick black-rimmed glasses and gray eyes, a serious, contemplative face.The woman is short, shoulder-length tawny brown hair, a green and yellow sundress.

Jeremy goes over to get their attention.

“Eric, Katie, this is Lance, the new sales hire—”

Lance doesn’t hear the rest. Katie turns, and it’s _Pidge_ standing before him, a smattering of freckles on her exposed shoulders, lips parted in surprise.No glasses, which means there’s nothing protecting him from those brown eyes, sweeping over him from head to toe.Suddenly, the Hawaiian print shirt he’d chosen to wear this evening seems terribly juvenile.

You’d think they’d have kept track of each other over the years. And Lance had tried, for the first few months.These were the people he’d trusted to have his back in life or death situations; picking up the phone or sending off a text or email should have been as easy as breathing. But it was startling—and saddening—to find out what you lost, once you no longer lived in the same castle or fought the same battles.Inside jokes and shared past adventures could only keep a relationship alive for so long.What was he supposed to fill this new empty space with? _Hey, it’s Lance, just wanted to see how you were doing. I watched the sun set over Varadero Beach again today._

Besides. Pidge had never been particularly impressed by sunsets.

“Hey.” Eric steps in, after a beat, extending a hand.“Nice to meet you.”

Lance shakes it numbly, managing to slide into his more charming persona at the last minute. “Hey! Pleasure’s mine, I’m looking forward to working with you all.” And then, before he can chicken out of it, he turns toward Pidge, hand still outstretched.

It’s partially a test, if he’s being honest with himself.Whether Pidge will acknowledge their history, or treat him as another casual acquaintance.

She reaches out, and her hands are just as callused as Lance remembers. _All that tinkering, you should get gloves like Hunk,_ he’d always teased.“Lance,” she says.“It’s been a while.”

“You guys know each other?” Jeremy, startled.

Lance waits. When Pidge makes no move to elaborate, he says, “Yeah. We go way back.”

“Hey, that’s great, we could always use someone with stories about her past. I keep trying to dig up some dirt on her but she never tells me anything fun,” says Eric, nudging Pidge slightly. Pidge rolls her eyes, but it’s fond.

Lance’s heart twinges, a little.

“I think the burgers should be ready any minute now, want to head back outside?” offers Jeremy.

“Yes, let’s,” Eric agrees.

“You all go ahead, I’m just going to cool off for a little and enjoy some guacamole first.” Lance positions himself by the bowl of chips, resting one elbow on the counter in an assumption of ease.Pidge, Jeremy, and Eric walk to the doorway of the kitchen.

At the last minute, Pidge pulls back from them, lingering.The two men don’t notice, already engrossed in some new conversation as they leave. 

An opening.Seize the day, thread the needle.

“Pidge—”

“I go by Katie, now,” she says, turning toward him.Still in the doorway. Not leaving but not coming closer, either.

“Katie.” Once upon a time, he would have considered it the more intimate form of address; now, though, it feels more like a demotion.“Listen, I…I had no idea that you worked for Altech.”

Pidge glances over her shoulder.Eric and Jeremy are long gone.She takes a step toward him, squinting slightly.It’s the focused look usually reserved for a particularly challenging math problem; Lance resists the urge to fidget.

“Are you saying you wouldn’t have taken the job, if you’d known?”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that!” Lance clarifies.“I’m just surprised, is all.I figured you’d be a rockstar in some governmental agency, if anything.”

“The pay’s good here and I like the people.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

She’s an arms-length away, now. If he reached over, he could touch her elbow.

“How long have you been in the area?” Pidge asks, studiously avoiding his gaze.

“Finished moving in last month.You?”

“I started with Altech in January.”

“I see.Are you—” Lance clears his throat. “Are you living on your own?”

Pidge looks up at him sharply.“Yeah,” she answers, after a measured pause.

He should ask about Matt or her dad.Or her mom. _How are you, how’s your family?_ Safe, acceptable small talk to make, after three years of radio silence.But he’d never thought three years would give him this: Pidge, in the buttery yellow light of someone else’s kitchen, hair long enough to brush the tops of her bare shoulders.She’d never worn dresses in their time on the ship—not that it would have mattered, or changed anything about how he felt.Part of him wants to whip off his shirt, drape it over her shoulders, protect this image from being seen by anyone else.At the same time, he has to remind himself that it’s irrational.He doesn’t get to do that.Not when he’s the one who called it off.

“It’s good to see you,” Lance says instead.The closest thing to a peace offering or an apology that he knows.

_How long can you hold your breath underwater?_

_1…2…3…_

Pidge reaches between them, grabbing a tortilla chip.Drags its point through the sauce and takes his words for what they are, offering her own.

“On a scale of 1 to Hunk, how would you rank this guacamole?”

And, like that, they begin again. 

 

* * *

 

_“You’re going to yank out all your hair that way.”_

_Pidge froze, the comb halfway through the strands; and then, pointedly making eye contact with him, continued pulling it straight through.Sure enough, a nasty snarl of brown pulled free—to Pidge’s credit, she hid her wince._

_Lance rolled his eyes, crossing the room in a few quick strides._

_“Sit,” he instructed, pointing to the floor._

_“Not unless you ask nicely.”_

_“Pidgey, dearest, please let me fix this mess.”_

_“Ew,” Pidge grumbled but consented, letting him pluck the comb out of her hand.Lance settled on the couch, keeping Pidge between his legs as he teased the tangles from her hair._

_“You’ve got to be gentle, and go slow,” he said. “It requires finesse.”_

_“I know, Lance. Believe it or not, I used to have long hair.”_

_“Yeah, so what’s the deal with you being totally hopeless about taking care of it now?”_

_“Less patience, I guess.” Pidge pinched a strand between forefinger and thumb, rubbing them back and forth. “I can’t decide if I want to cut it again or grow it out long, this time.”_

_Lance finished running the comb through Pidge’s hair, considering.It hit the very base of her neck, now; he imagined it longer._

_“Pros and cons?” he suggested, because Pidge liked plans and reasoning through things, and he liked listening._

_“Pros: it’d be a change.I really did like having long hair, and I could do more with it,” Pidge ticked off on her fingers.“Cons: I’d have to throw it up in a bun like Allura every time I put my helmet on, which could be a hassle.”She tilted her head back.“What do you think?”_

_It was weird, having her head cradled in his lap.Looking at her upside down: the golden brown fringe of her eyelashes, the long line of her neck.It made him aware, suddenly, of all the ways they’d grown up—nineteen and twenty-one, now, though Altean years ran a bit differently—and all the ways they hadn’t._

_“Up to you,” he said, and, in the same breath: “You smell gross.”_

_“Training session with Keith, what did you expect?” Pidge said, sending him a flat look.But his answer seemed to inspire something in her; she nodded, resuming her original pose._

_Lance nudged her with his knee. “Go take a shower,” he whined._

_“All right, you big baby.”_

_Slowly, Pidge got to her feet, the curtain of her hair swinging gently._

_Lance watched her go, something stirring in his chest._


	2. FALL

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And it’s comfortable, like this. Friends who trust each other’s opinions, coworkers who pick each other’s brains. Teammates. 
> 
> Lance glances down at the lid of his mug, tries for nonchalant. “Hey, are you going to the mixer thingy tonight?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feelings are hard, kids
> 
> written while listening to ["No Promises"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=exoWGjpx4UM) on loop so that kind of explains the ending scene, I guess

_FALL_

*

Lance takes a sip of his coffee and immediately regrets it, the liquid scalding his tongue.His fault—his mug is programmed to alert him of the temperature of its contents, but sometimes he gets too lazy to look at the status bar and decides to risk it the good old fashioned way instead. 

The door of the break room opens and Amara enters, blouse perfectly pressed as always.

“Hey,” she greets.

“Hi, Amara.” Lance lifts his mug in acknowledgement.

Amara moves toward the coffee machine, starting it up with a steady whir.Over the noise, she congratulates: “Good job on bringing in the top numbers again this month.”

Lance smiles, one shoulder pulling higher than the other as he shrugs.“What can I say? I’m competitive.” He remembers the Garrison, waiting for sim score postings with bated breath.The very first time he and Keith raced in their Lions, neck and neck.

“You’re going out with us tonight, right? We’re having a mixer with the tech team.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” Lance winks, and it feels good, to be on top of his game again, to receive Amara’s answering smile and see her tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

Somebody else enters the break room.

“Oh, good, Lance, you’re here.”

Pidge. 

He stands a little straighter.Over Pidge’s shoulder, Amara wiggles her fingers in goodbye, slipping out through the door.

“What’s up?”

Pidge walks toward him, a data pad clutched in her hands.“I need a second opinion.We just had one of our technical writers redo the user manual, but I still want to make sure that it’s not too, you know, science jargon-y.And you’ve always been good at picking out that stuff…”She sets the tablet on the counter, swiping to bring up the file; Lance twists to his side, leaning over her shoulder to get a look.It’s muscle memory, this position—they might as well be poring over battle plans or a holographic projection of a planet.

His eyes swim at some of the paragraphs. _Oh, god, what am I getting myself into—_ “I could take a look at it over the weekend,” he offers.

Pidge blinks up at him.“You’re sure?”

“Yeah, no big deal.Just send me a copy.” 

“Already done.” Pidge brightens, typing in his work email, the data transmitted with a satisfying _swish_ , and it’s comfortable, like this.Friends who trust each other’s opinions, coworkers who pick each other’s brains.Teammates. 

Lance glances down at the lid of his mug, tries for nonchalant.“Hey, are you going to the mixer thingy tonight?”

“At Jolie’s?” Jolie’s, the bar just a few blocks away from their work, with the atmospheric blue glass lights and the karaoke stage for when you’re too many drinks in and feel like serenading the whole world with your feelings.Sales team already has bets going on who will be the first to drunkenly volunteer; currently, the majority favors Jeremy.

“Yeah.”

Pidge considers.“Probably.Are you?”

“You know me. Like _I_ could turn down a party,” says Lance, nudging her.

She cracks a smile.“I’ll see you tonight, then.And thanks for looking over the manual, seriously.I owe you.”

“I’ll keep that in mind next time I need somebody’s account hacked.”

“I don’t do that anymore, Lance!” Pidge protests, punching his arm.Before he can react, she’s by the exit.He has half a mind to feign injury, if only to prolong their interaction for a few more seconds.

Instead, Lance raises his mug to his lips, taking a long sip. 

His arm throbs.The coffee slides down his throat: still warm.

 

*

 

“Lance! You’re late!”

“Fashionably, I hope,” says Lance, shrugging out of his jacket as he follows Amara toward the bar.The lights cast everyone in a dark red glow, and for a second he’s back in Red’s cockpit, weaving through space.His coworkers spin toward him and away like dizzy stars.

Amara leaves his side, drawn by the noise coming from the pool table in the back corner.Lance orders a glass of scotch, then looks down the bar to see Pidge perched on a stool, dragging her index finger absentmindedly around the sugar-encrusted rim of her drink.Lemon Drop. Sweet with a dose of sour—classic Pidge.

“So, you come here often?”

She looks up, features relaxing when she recognizes him.“I was starting to wonder if you were ever going to show.”

“That boring without me, huh.”

“Actually, no, it’s been pretty entertaining.You missed Eric getting frisky on the dance floor.”

“Aw, man, seriously?” Lance mourns.“Please tell me you got a recording.”

“Obviously.” Pidge shoots him one of her secretive little smirks.“I can’t pass up prime blackmail material.”

“So you _haven’t_ left behind your old ways after all.”

“I like having a lot of information at my fingertips,” Pidge justifies, and Lance thinks of the files she’d kept on their team, categorizing strengths and weaknesses.When he’d first found out, he’d felt a little betrayed; it hurt to think that someone close to him could pick him apart like that, lay him bare on a page.But he’d come to learn that it was Pidge’s way of caring: a constellation of data points that she drew close to herself, as comfort.They existed in the flesh, but also as facts and figures—indisputable, something nobody could take away.

Over on the karaoke stage, Jeremy has finally taken the microphone, launching into some ballad from ages ago: _I’m all out of love, I’m so lost without you—_

Lance bumps Pidge’s shoulder.“I challenge you to a duet.”

She scoffs.“Please, I’m _way_ too sober.”

“We can fix that.”

Pidge finishes her drink, turning toward him. When she meets his gaze, her eyes are bright with challenge, and Lance lets himself tip a little closer to her gravity.The pieces will fall where they may.

 

*

 

Three hours later finds him standing on the curb, waving his goodbyes.A warm pleasantness sits in his chest, muscles relaxed. 

“I had fun today.”

Lance turns, startled to find Pidge taller than usual.A glance downwards reveals that she’s wearing a pair of black pumps; it’s the first time he’s noticed them this whole night, and the thought does something funny to his stomach.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Pidge shifts from foot to foot.Lance resists the urge to smile, already anticipating the next nervous stream of words: “I mean, I like everyone, obviously, I wouldn’t be here otherwise, but you know me, it takes a lot of time for me to really get comfortable and open up and… it was just easier, with you around.”

_Don’t read into it, Lance._

“How’d you get here?” he deflects.

“Took the rail link.”

“Yeah, you should probably call a ride to get back instead.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Pidge grumbles, reaching for the clasp of her purse, and Lance remembers the first time they got drunk together.It’d been after a diplomatic banquet on some planet with two moons. Gathered in the Castle’s lounge, passing around a bottle that was leagues better than nunvill, Hunk had teased Pidge about being the only one of them that had yet to reach drinking age, which set off another argument about laws in space until Pidge said, “Who’s gonna arrest me, the space police?” and grabbed the flask from Lance’s hand.Which was how Lance learned that, while he and Shiro got affectionate and Keith got contemplative (Hunk, too, but in a more incessantly questioning kind of way), drunk Pidge became grumpy and then sleepy.

The car pulls up.Lance opens the door for Pidge, watching her slide into the backseat.“Text me when you’re home safe, I’ll see you on Monday—”

“Lance.” Pidge’s voice is quiet, the barest trace of vulnerability underneath; and that’s bad, because the last time Pidge was vulnerable around him, Lance fucked everything up.“I want… I want you to see my place.”

He shouldn’t. Bad idea. But Lance has another weakness to add to Pidge’s ongoing list, after all these years: pent-up regret and zero resistance to a certain pair of beseeching brown eyes.

“Okay,” he says, and gets in the car.

 

*

 

Pidge is half-asleep when they finally arrive at her apartment building.Lance leaves the car door open behind him for her to squeeze out of, turning his attention toward trying to guess which of the windows above them is hers.

 _“Fuck.”_  

He whirls around.“Pi—Katie,” he catches himself at the last second, “are you okay?”

Pidge balances on her left foot, heels clutched in one hand, the other one rubbing her right ankle.“I’m fine, I just—what are you doing?”

“Come on, I’ll carry you the rest of the way.”

“Lance, the door isn’t that far, and there’s an elevator once we get inside—”

“Are you really going to turn down a free piggyback ride?”

“All right, fine,” Pidge sighs, sliding her arms around his neck.Lance hooks his arms under her legs, rising slowly to adjust to the weight.Nobody bats an eye at them when they enter the lobby.In the elevator, Pidge reaches over his shoulder to press the button for her floor, and her hair brushes against the side of his face, giving him a whiff of her shampoo. _Coconut._

Several minutes later, he stands in the middle of her living room.Pidge is dozing off again, breath puffing warmly against his neck, and Lance keeps the moment to himself, soaking in his surroundings.Half-assembled 3D puzzle on the coffee table, a fuzzy blanket thrown over the arm of the couch.Over in the kitchenette, magnets from the local planetarium adorn the fridge.

Gingerly, Lance navigates through the darkness.With his foot, he nudges the bedroom door open, the mattress squeaking gently when he sits down on its edge.He deposits Pidge as slowly as he can, careful not to crush her when he leans back—she makes a soft noise as she untangles from him, stretching out on the bed.And it’s like one of those tragic Greek myths; he’s Orpheus, unable to stop himself from looking over his shoulder.

Pidge is curled away from him, toward the wall.Her hair has grown well past her shoulders, now; Lance wonders if she plans on letting it reach mid-back. 

His job is done here.He’s seen whatever it is Pidge wanted him to see.Turning around, Lance starts to leave.

A tug on the back of his shirt stops him. 

“Wait.”

Pidge might as well have turned an ice cannon on him, for what it does to his body.Lance swallows.“I have to go.”

“I know,” Pidge says, and he can hear her body dragging across the sheets, curving toward him.“Thanks for bringing me home,” she mumbles, words laced with sleep.“I had fun today.”

“You said that earlier already.”

“That’s not… I meant…” She makes an impatient noise, expelling air through her nose.Lance can’t help snorting in return; even when drunk, Pidge’s mind moves too fast to pin down.

“I was nervous about tonight,” Pidge finally confesses.“I was worried things might be weird.”

“Oh.”

“But hanging out with you was… normal.So I guess that means I must be over it.”

“Over it,” Lance echoes.

“Yeah.”She sounds relaxed.Happy, even—like a weight has been lifted.

Lance should be happy, too.

“Whatever it was between us, I don’t care anymore, I just—I just want us to be friends.”

There’s a spot of chipped paint on the wall across from them, right below the light switch.Indistinguishable to most other people, especially with the room as dark as it is right now, but Lance has always had a marksman’s eye.He should have seen this coming, probably.And he can do this: bite the bullet, keep the truth lodged in his chest, no exit wound.

“Yeah,” he says softly, proud of the steadiness of his voice.“Me, too.”

 

* * *

 

_“Oh, hey, Allura—ha!” In the split second that Lance spared to glance over his shoulder, Pidge swept his legs out from under him, knocking him flat on his rear._

_“Hey!” Lance protested.“Misdirection! Dirty move!”_

_“Oldest trick in the book,” said Pidge, beaming smugly.She pointed her staff at his chest.“You lose.”_

_“All right, fine.” Lance dropped his own staff in a gesture of surrender, showing his palms.He held a hand out.“Help me up?”_

_She rolled her eyes but reached down to wrap her fingers around his, grip firm._

_Too easy._

_Lance tugged._

_Down went Pidge, a crash of limbs.Her elbow caught his side and Lance cursed, wheezing: “Ow, fuck, my ribs—”_

_“Language,” mocked Pidge._

_“Who are you to talk about language, you’ve got the dirtiest mouth out of all of us—”But that thought cut short, because said mouth was now hovering only a few inches away from his._

_In hindsight, perhaps this hadn’t been the greatest idea._

_“Lance?” Some of Pidge’s hair had come free of her ponytail, curling in wispy clouds around her face.She’d decided not to cut it and it hung midway down her back, now.Lance was prone to tugging it on occasion, just to bother her.(“Why don’t you ever do that to Allura?” “Because Allura would kill me.” “What, and you think I wouldn’t?” “‘Course not, you’d miss me too much.”)_

_He swallowed.What were those lines from Legally Blonde?“Exercise gives you endorphins. Endorphins make you happy.”That was what this was, probably.Despite his better judgment, he reached up, tucking one of the loose strands behind Pidge’s ear.Something had been knocked out of him, in his fall—he took a breath but it didn’t quite fill his lungs._

_“Right here.”_

_Here, in the slowly shrinking space between them—and then their mouths were touching, Pidge’s lips soft and slightly chapped against his, and this wasn’t a moment he’d dreamt of but his hands moved of their own accord, found the tie in her hair and pulled it free, gently, tresses spilling through the gaps between his fingers, Pidge pushing down on him until it felt like he’d sink straight through the floor—_

_Oh, god.They were on the floor. Of the training room. Where anyone could walk in—_

_“Pidge, wait.” Lance broke away, even more winded than before.“What are we doing?”_

_She blinked at him.Color was rising to her cheeks, but her voice remained remarkably level as she said: “I thought it was pretty obvious.”_

_“No, I meant,” he propped himself up on an elbow, gesturing between them with a finger, “this.”_

_Pidge sat back on her heels. Wary.“I like you, Lance.”_

_It should have been a no-brainer, after what had just occurred between them, but Lance still felt as if he’d been clobbered over the head.It must have seeped into his expression, because Pidge scowled._

_“You don’t have to look so surprised.Objectively, you’re not… you’re not bad-looking, and you get me differently from the others, and you make me laugh, so really, out of everyone on the ship—”_

_And there were the words he’d been dreading._

_“Don’t say that.”_

_“Say what?” Pidge frowned._

_“You said: ‘Out of everyone on the ship.’That’s settling. That’s talking like we’re never going to get back to Earth.”_

_Pidge’s eyes widened.“Lance, that’s not what I mean.”_

_“Think about it.We’ve been up here for what, four years?Spending time with the same company day in and day out, it might just be—” He made a halfhearted motion with his hand.“Cabin pressure?Stir craziness?Things get a little weird but that doesn’t—that doesn’t make me the_ **_one.”_ **

_“What makes you so sure you aren’t?” Pidge’s voice had gone dangerously quiet._

_“I just—” He didn’t know why he was sabotaging himself like this.He’d been chasing a relationship for so long, it felt, and now here it was, literally in his lap.But the words came anyway: “What about all the places you haven’t been yet, and all the people you haven’t met?I don’t want that to get forfeited for… me.”_

_“Lance.” Pidge’s fingers dug into the cloth of his shirt, just above his heart. “It doesn’t have to be this whole future planned out.What about right now?”Her eyes bore into his.“Right here?”_

_It wasn’t that he didn’t believe people could have more than one love, over a lifetime.If anything, Lance believed in an abundance of affection.But something had shifted, and he didn’t know how to tell Pidge that he couldn’t talk about a here and now without wanting the promise of a future, and the yearning split him in two, because if—_ **_when_ ** _—they got back to Earth, they’d probably be going after different things.A sadness overtook him, for something he hadn’t even lost yet._

_Pidge mistook his silence for disagreement._

_“You could just tell me, you know,” she said lowly.“If you don’t feel the same.”_

_And with that, she stood up.Her weight lifted from his chest._

_He didn’t breathe any easier._

_Long-range fighting had always been Lance’s strength, and he understood it better, now.It messed you up so much more when you could see the hurt you inflicted up close.He could fix this—a few words and they’d be back on track, the misunderstanding smoothed over—but maybe it was for the best, to quit while they were ahead.To manage the hurt while they were still Lance and Pidge and not Lance-and-Pidge.They were going to get back to Earth, eventually, and she would go to her mom and he would find his way back to Varadero so didn’t it make sense, to not make any promises?_

_He didn’t want to be responsible for holding anyone back._

_The training room doors slid shut._


	3. WINTER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Pidge:** Need your help  
>  **Lance:** like hiding a dead body kind of help or …  
>  **Pidge:** No!  
>  I’ll explain after work

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here have some fwoof

_WINTER_

_*_

 

“Is it Sara?”

“No.”

“Eric?”

“No.”

“Amara?”

“No.”

“Are you even going to tell me if I get it right?”

“No.”

“Ugh!” Jeremy throws up his hands.“You’re really cramping my style, here.”

Lance shoots him a flat look.“Half of the fun of Secret Santa is the, you know, _secret_ part.”

Jeremy grins, waving a finger. “You have _me,_ don’t you.”

_“No.”_

It’s one of their rare moments of rest in the office.Jeremy has a spreadsheet pulled up on his computer, tabulating his guesses on who has whom for the end-of-year gift exchange.More than once, he’s tried to bribe Lance with the information—and while Lance would be lying if he said he wasn’t tempted, part of him still believes in the beauty of surprises. 

“Can you just tell me if it’s someone in sales?Or is it someone in marketing?”

“Jeremy, there’s only _one person in marketing._ ”

“So, no, then. Tech team?”

It’s like fending off one of his older sisters when she’s digging for gossip.Lance puts his fingers to his temple, massaging. 

“How much do I have to pay you to quit asking?”

“My month’s rent?” Jeremy quips, teeth flashing.At Lance’s expression, he laughs.“Okay, fine, I’ll stop pestering.”

 _“Thank_ you,” exhales Lance.Before he can enjoy his release, though, another distraction comes calling, this time in the form of a text.

 

 **Pidge:** Are you free this afternoon

 

Lance frowns.

 

 **Lance:** ya what’s up ??

 **Pidge:** Need your help

 **Lance:** like hiding a dead body kind of help or … 

**Pidge:** No!

I’ll explain after work

 

“Who’s the lucky gal?” interjects Jeremy, craning his neck.

“One, who says it’s a girl, and two, none of your business.”

“Nobody tells me anything,” Jeremy pouts.

 

*

 

After his shift, Lance takes the elevator down to the lobby.She meets him fifteen minutes later, scurrying toward where he sits in one of the cushy leather chairs. 

“Sorry,” says Pidge.“Had to do some desk cleaning.”

“No problem.” Lance stands up, tucking his hands in his pockets.“What’s the sitch?”

“I hate that I get that reference,” Pidge says, then surprises him by asking: “Have you gotten a gift for your Secret Santa yet?”

“No.”

Pidge releases a breath. “Oh, good. That actually makes me feel better.”

“Is that what you need my help with?”

“Yeah,” Pidge says, her bottom lip pushing out into a frown.“I have Amara, and I’ve got no idea what to get her.”

Lance preens a little, straightening his shoulders and puffing out his chest.“Well, you definitely came to the right guy.How big is your budget?”

“Nothing too extravagant.I was just going to go to the outdoor mall and see if I could find anything there.”

Lance looks outside, to where a fleet of passerby stroll past the windows with their heads down, hunched against a gust of wind.Snow piles in drifts on the sidewalks and against the base of the lamppost just outside their office building’s doors.Doubtfully, he eyes Pidge, who is busy zipping up her jacket and winding a scarf around her neck, covering the bottom half of her face.

“You, Katie Perpetually-Cold Holt, are going to brave the outdoor mall in this weather?Just for the sake of Secret Santa?”

Pidge shoots him one of those _do you even know me?_ looks.“I don’t half-ass things,” she says primly, words muffled through the woolen layer wrapped around her mouth.“Now are you coming or not?”

 

*

 

For a Wednesday afternoon, it’s a busy crowd.Paper bags bump against hips and a group of little girls blow past them, chasing each other in puffy parkas.Pidge’s hands stay in her coat pockets and Lance’s stay in his, but the narrow walkways keep them close.At the corner, someone has set up a table just outside the tea shop, offering samples.Lance nudges Pidge with his elbow, nodding toward the display.

“I’m pretty sure I’ve heard Amara mention a teapot collection once.Maybe you could get her one and some tea mix?”

Pidge stops short in the middle of the street.“That’s actually a good idea.”

Lance raises an eyebrow. “You sound surprised.”

“I just meant… I didn’t think it would be so _easy.”_

“You say that now,” Lance warns, pulling open the shop door, the bell tinkling brightly overhead, “but you underestimate how hard it is to pick the perfect blend of tea.”

 

*

 

Half an hour later, after Pidge makes him rate ten different blends based on smell and coloring to help her whittle down her choices, they leave with Amara’s gift nestled safely in a bag.Lance is trying to figure out the best way to say goodbye, now that they’ve finished the errand Pidge recruited him for, but instead she tilts her face up to him, expectant.

“Okay, now it’s your turn.”

“What?”

“You said you hadn’t bought anything yet for your Secret Santa, either. We’re still here; might as well maximize our time and take care of your gift, too.”

Lance snorts, reaching over to ruffle Pidge’s hair.“‘Maximize our time,’” he quotes.“Nerd.”

“It’s not _nerdy,_ it’s common sense,” grumbles Pidge, fixing her bangs as she scurries to catch up with him.“So who are we shopping for?”

“Secret.”

Pidge narrows her eyes. “Since when have you been good at keeping secrets?”

“Since it was called Secret Santa,” counters Lance, before his eyes light up at the shop approaching on their right.“Hey, look.”

A miniature Rube Goldberg machine occupies the window.Model airplanes hang from the ceiling on varying lengths of wire, which gleam silver like tinsel.A single shared glance between them is all it takes to agree on the detour.Lance is the one who pointed out the store, but Pidge is the one who runs with it, full speed ahead, thrusting Amara’s gift bag into his arms so that she can barrel through the door, the shop bell chiming loudly overhead.

Right before Lance follows Pidge into the buttery light of the toy store, he pauses.

When they were younger, Mariel, his oldest sister, had brought home a stray cat and managed to convince their parents to let them keep it.Rosa had been a solitary creature, for the most part, crawling into their laps at the most inconvenient times and then refusing to come near when they actually made attempts to coax her.She’d always sprung for Tommy’s laser pointer, though, would pounce after the red dot for hours.

Going after Pidge is a little like that.More instinct than thought, a light chased after, and for a moment he wonders about the alternate paths they could have taken. _If_ he hadn’t followed her up to the roof of the Garrison that night. _If_ he hadn’t let her drag him through the space mall, all those years ago. _If_ he could manage to close his eyes and look away.

He takes a step forward and goes in.

Pidge crouches beside the tiny track laid around the perimeter of the shop, watching as the model train emerges from the tunnel by her shoes.The next minute finds her on her tiptoes, nose pressed against glass as she peers at the inner workings of a red and white grandfather clock.From a corner, a collection of music boxes chimes, fifteen different melodies somehow meshing together.

Lance turns to the shelf nearest him, setting the shopping bag down by his feet.An unattended remote control rests above a card labeled _“See attendant.”_

A woman with mousy brown hair approaches him, clad in a green vest.“Anything I can do to help you?”

Lance points at the control.“What does this go with?”

“That one over there.” The woman indicates a double-winged plane, its body painted blue, its propeller and wings orange.“You can try it, if you want.”

Lance doesn’t need to be told twice.They’d owned a sleek black quadcopter drone when he was little; he’d spent countless summers running barefoot along the beach while his dad or one of his older sisters piloted it, making it swerve and dip just out of reach in a high-tech game of catch.But there’s something charming about playing with this vintage model instead, its garish candy colors especially bright as he steers it to hover annoyingly close to Pidge’s head.

 _“Lance,”_ she huffs from deeper in the store, swatting it away.The plane dips away from her reach, skimming dangerously close to the jewel-toned music boxes on display.

“Hey, careful with the merchandise!You break it, you buy it!” Lance warns, to the chagrin of the shop attendant standing beside him.Pidge just rolls her eyes and sticks her tongue out at him, but sure enough she wants to have a try later.Lance spends a good five minutes holding the control out of her reach before the shopkeeper intervenes, terrified that they’ll knock over the carefully arranged dollhouse in the corner.

It’s worth it, for the smug look Pidge sends him when she finally gets her way.Lance pretends to be more offended then he really is, bites the inside of his cheek to hide his smile at the concentration that washes over Pidge’s face as she fiddles with the controls.

He knows how to keep a secret.

 

* 

 

The unveiling comes on a Friday, Altech’s third floor space commandeered by a group of excited adults.Lance gets new cologne and a gift card to some fancy dinner place courtesy of Jeremy, a not-so-subtle dig. (“Well-played,” he tells his friend, afterwards.)Amara is absolutely smitten by her new teapot, even going so far as to hug Pidge, who shoots Lance a startled look through the embrace.

Lance winks.

Soon it’s Pidge’s turn to unwrap her mystery present.She tears into it with gusto, undoing the cardboard tabs of the box beneath the silver and gold wrapping paper.A star-shaped projector emerges from the packaging, about as big as her face.

“Turn the lights off,” someone says, and the room plunges into relative darkness, everyone watching as Pidge powers up her gift.A whir, like the sound of curtain rolling up, and a beam of light paints stars on the ceiling, swirling points in blue and green.They coalesce in a slow, mesmerizing kaleidoscope effect.

Realistically, Lance knows it’s just a projection, but a part of him longs to reach upward all the same, imagines coming away with their colors on his fingertips.

“Who’s it from?” Eric calls.

Pidge is already ahead of him. She reads the name on the card to herself, then does a double-take.

“Lance?”

 

*

 

“Thank you,” Pidge says, for the fifth time that day.

Ever since the fall mixer, they’ve taken to walking to the rail station together after work.It’s a good way to transition from the headspace of the office into the rest of his evening; talking to Pidge always helps him unwind.She makes a comical figure today, forced to wrap both arms around her unwieldy Secret Santa box in order to carry it effectively.A forest green and white knit cap sits over her hair; Lance reaches over to flick the pompom adorning it.

“Like I’ve already said, you’re welcome.”

“I just can’t believe you managed to find something like this so last minute.It’s so… _perfect._ ”

Lance shrugs, raising his arms above his head to stretch.“What can I say?I’m a pretty pro gift-giver.”

Pidge hugs the box closer to her chest, smiling down at it.“Yeah, I guess.”

_I just want us to be friends._

Friends can stay out a little longer on a Friday evening.They’ll approach the rail station soon enough on their left, but Lance nudges Pidge slightly toward the right, turning her attention up the street.In the distance, the park’s outdoor rink gleams bright white against the dark stone bridges and bare-boned trees.“We should go ice-skating.”

“What am I going to do with this, though?” Pidge holds up her present.

“It’ll fit in the locker, trust me,” says Lance.“Now hurry up, it looks like they’re bringing out the zamboni and I want to be the first one on that ice.”

 

*

 

They make it to the rink with relatively little mishap, though Lance almost slips on a patch of ice on the sidewalk and Pidge comes close to bowling over some kid in a puffy purple parka.It’s worth it, though, for the satisfaction of the first smooth glide of his skates.Pidge is slower about stepping out onto the rink, and Lance takes advantage, throwing a clump of ice at her back and skating away before she can retaliate.He has to maneuver carefully with all the other people milling about, but he’s still completed a full lap in the time it takes Pidge to relinquish her grip on the wall.And, of course, she only does this in order to lunge at him instead.Lance skids from the added momentum, managing to regain his balance just enough to turn them around so that he bears most of the impact when they collide with the barrier.

“Oof!”

“Sorry,” says Pidge, drawing back.Her cheeks are ruddy from the cold.When she blinks up at him, Lance notices a fleck of moisture caught on her eyelashes.Unwittingly, his focus narrows to that single point: the kiss of tiny hairs against the curve of her cheek, their slow approach.She’s got a hand on his coat, he realizes distantly—holding him in place.And she’s rising on her toes, her other hand sneaking up to hover somewhere near his neck, too much and not enough, all at once—

“Not,” says Pidge, and dumps a clump of ice down his back.

 

* * *

 

_At the dining table, Lance stopped short._

_“You cut your hair.”_

_He didn’t mean for it to come out sounding so betrayed.Pidge looked up, fiddling with the newly shortened ends behind her ear._

_“Yeah.” A shoulder lifted higher than the other; her eyes slid away.“It was getting hard to manage.”_

_“Who did it for you?”_

_“Keith.”_

_It was a clean cut.Practical, precise.He wanted to say something about that—offer a compliment, an “It looks good,” because that’s what he would have said anyways, before whatever had happened between them in the training room—_

_Instead, he hesitated.“Listen, Pidge—”_

_“It’s fine.” She brushed him off.“It’s just the way it was before.”_

_Lance had made his choice.This was Pidge’s._

_ It was the least he could do. _

_"Like nothing's changed," he agreed, and pretended that they were only talking about her hair._


	4. SPRING

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The air smells of blooming, white blossoms decorating the trees that line the main square. Spring, then summer—almost a whole year since Pidge has slipped back into his life. So what if she looks like a memory pressed between pages, like the spot in a book where his thumb left off, hoping to start again? It’s a stupid thing to get shaken up over. They’ve moved forward. Moved on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is just sap idkkkkkk

_SPRING_

 

*

 

Lance tries not to stare.

They’re in a business meeting, running numbers with the tech team.  At the front of the room, Pidge nods along as Jeremy walks her through a sales report.  Her fingers reach up to scratch lightly at the back of her neck.  Lance swallows and ducks his head, preoccupying himself with spinning a blue pen over the back of his knuckles.

It’s been two days since he last saw Pidge—just another casual Friday walking with her to the station—but over the weekend, she’s gone and gotten a haircut.  Lance didn’t expect it to rattle him like this.  But he walked in this morning and Pidge looked up to greet him and it was like he’d been punched four years into the past, faced with that familiar frizz and the way Pidge pushes flyaway strands off her cheeks.     

Of course, being the dumbass he is, Lance only manages a “Hey” and a quick gulp of his coffee (too hot, _again_ ) before the meeting starts.  Tech team retreats to their own floor immediately afterwards, leaving Lance to sulk over spreadsheets and statistics for the rest of the day.

He makes up for it later, though.  When he finally works up the nerve to touch Pidge’s elbow, evening has seeped across the sky like a watercolor painting, the hover link cars ghosting silently into their stations overhead.

“I didn’t get a chance to say so earlier, but, uh—I like the new haircut.”

“Thanks.” Pidge smiles, shifting her bag higher on her shoulder.  “It was getting long, and the weather’s warming up anyways…”

That’s right.  The air smells of blooming, white blossoms decorating the trees that line the main square.  Spring, then summer—almost a whole year since Pidge has slipped back into his life.  So what if she looks like a memory pressed between pages, like the spot in a book where his thumb left off, hoping to start again? It’s a stupid thing to get shaken up over.  They’ve moved forward.  Moved on.

“Want a pretzel?” he offers.

Pidge is already reaching for her wallet, full steam ahead.

 

*

 

Behind the rocks, Lance breathes in slowly, finger poised on the trigger.  Sunlight glints off the barrel of a gun in the distance.  A slow patrol.  Altech’s HR department has organized another company bonding excursion: paintball.

 

Lance is in his element, the old sniper instincts having kicked in.  Sheltered against a tree trunk, Eric waits for his signal.  A hand raised—Lance holds it for a bit before motioning forward, and then he’s vaulting over his makeshift cover.  His first shot rings true; it catches Janice right in the chest, splattering blue paint.  Eric takes down Dirk, and he and Lance are just about to high-five when an explosion of red catches Eric from behind, causing him to lurch forward slightly.

“Shit!” says Lance, swinging his gun in a wide arc.  “I thought you guys were the last ones!”

“Well, you thought wrong!”  The voice is muffled because of their helmets, but the cheerful glee Lance recognizes easily as Jeremy.  Another ball of paint comes flying; he dodges it just in time.  He’s got to clear out of here—it’s too exposed.

“Don’t leave me here to die, man,” Eric play-acts, but he’s already got his hands raised in surrender, headed after Janice and Dirk to wait out the rest of the round back at the safety zone.

Meanwhile, Lance takes off running.  A female voice enters the fray, scolding: “ _Jeremy, save some of your ammo for when we’re closer!”_  Amara. 

Sticks snap underfoot as he barrels through the trees, sounding off like miniature firecrackers.  Oh, well.  No time for stealth, only escape.  He’s standing by a gigantic log, trying to gauge whether it’d be worth it to scale one of the trees and shoot from above, when a hand closes around his ankle.

“Ahh!”

“Shut up, Lance, it’s me!” Pidge hisses at him from the hollows, her dark gray helmet blending in with the shadows.  Without hesitation, Lance tosses his gun to her and crawls in, trying not to think too much about the softer, rotting patches that give way under his hands.

The inside of the log is roomier than he expected, though his knees still end up uncomfortably close to his shoulders as he sits.  The curse of long legs.  He blinks a little to adjust to the gloom, then says: “Have you been hiding in here the whole time?”

“More or less.  It’s Deathmatch—you only win if you take out everyone on the other side.  And if no one can find me, then…”

“Yeah, but half of the fun of paintball is shooting.  Your visibility in here kind of sucks—you can only see up to, like, someone’s knee.”

“That’s how I managed to take out Martin,” points out Pidge.  “A shot’s a shot.”

“Nice.”

“Who’s left?”

“On our side? I think just you and me.  Red Team seems like it’s just Jeremy and Amara.”

Pidge nods.  “Okay, here’s the plan—”

She doesn’t get to finish.  A shot goes whizzing into their little hiding place, and before Lance can fully think about it he’s already shoving Pidge down and throwing himself over her.  The paint hits his shoulder, splashing up onto his neck and into his hair.  Pidge cusses and wriggles out from under him.  Another bullet hits him, but two more fire from Pidge’s gun, and then—

“All right, all right, you got us,” says Jeremy, laughing.  “Victory’s yours, Team Blue.”

“Drop your guns!” Pidge demands, just to be sure.  The weapons fall to the forest floor.  Satisfied, Pidge scrambles out.  Gingerly, Lance follows close behind.  He’s going to have a wicked bruise tomorrow.

Pidge has tugged her helmet off, cheeks flushed with pride.  Jeremy drags a hand through the blue paint on his hip, flicking some of it off his fingertips at Amara, who swats at him in retaliation.

“We did it, Lance, we won!” says Pidge, turning toward him.  “We—Lance?”

“ _Oh,_ ” he fake-swoons, staggering dramatically against her.  “I’ve been mortally wounded.”

“Lance, you’re being ridiculous.”  Pidge rolls her eyes, but the corners of her mouth twitch upwards.  She lets him drape an arm across her shoulders, propping him up with a hand pressed flat against his back.

“I took a bullet for you!” he gasps.  “How dare you undermine my pain!”

“You’ve done stupider,” Pidge says under her breath, and suddenly they’re a million miles away, shattered glass and a fritzing bayard, Pidge’s hands on his shoulders, her face fading in and out of view— _no, please, I can’t—I won’t—_

He snaps out of the reverie just in time to catch the shutters snap back into place over Pidge’s eyes, but the brief vulnerability is enough to make him feel guilty.  He’d meant the whole exchange to be teasing, not a reminder that Pidge owes him anything, because she _doesn’t._   He’s not—

 _Shit._   Get a grip, McClain. 

Abruptly, he straightens.  Pidge’s hand drops back to her side.  She’s looking at him funny, like he’s a line of code she needs to run again, but he pretends not to notice.

“We should go back,” he says.  “Gotta properly bask in our glory.”

Amara starts after him, Pidge quickly falling into place.  Jeremy jogs to catch up, clapping him on the back, and soon they’re all arguing over the best plays of the afternoon ( _“Come on, you have to admit that Amara and I totally caught you and Eric by surprise.  The ambush got ambushed!”)_

It’s a good place to be.

 

*

 

Hunk’s face on his screen is a sunflower, radiating joy. 

“You did it, big guy,” congratulates Lance, watching Hunk model his white chef’s coat. 

“The restaurant I work for is having a celebration,” says Hunk.  “I get full command of the kitchen for a night.”

“Shouldn’t they be serving _you_ for your graduation dinner?”

“Please, I’ve had this menu planned out for months.  No way am I handing it off to someone else.”  He pauses.  “You should come, Lance.  I don’t know if you can spare the vacation days, but we could make a whole weekend out of it—”

“Say no more, I’m already looking for tickets,” says Lance, swiping to his calendar. 

“Oh, also—feel free to bring a guest.”

Lance’s index finger hovers over his tablet.  “I’ll think about it.”

 

*

 

Hunk’s celebration dinner is every bit as magnificent as expected.  After all, when your culinary expertise has been taste-tested across the galaxy, it takes just a flick of the wrist to show ‘em the ol’ razzle dazzle back on Earth.  Lance says as much when he gets into Hunk’s car.  The seatbelt is a bit of a struggle, what with how bloated he feels after gorging on a full-course meal.  Roasted pork that fell right off the skewer, flan that jiggled perfectly on its plate—“Please come back to me, Hunk,” mourns Lance, placing a hand against his forehead. “I don’t know if I can eat any other kind of cooking again.”

Laughing, Hunk drives them to his apartment. It smells of coconut oil and a cabinet full of spices.  Running his hand along the back of the couch, Lance takes note of the dog-eared magazines, the melted candle.  Hunk has a balcony with a great view of the skyline, and there are plants covering almost every surface.  Some hanging, some potted; Lance almost knocks over the basil Hunk is growing when they finally step outside, he and Hunk and Pidge.

Part of him had already decided to invite Pidge, even before he’d ended the call with Hunk. It just made sense.  Their Garrison trio reunited—perhaps three years later than desirable, but still. 

“Toast?” Pidge suggests, holding up a bottle of champagne.  It’s one of the ones Hunk was gifted, tied off with a fancy red bow.

They let Hunk do the honors.  The cork pops free softly, white froth spilling gold into their glasses. 

“To Hunk,” says Lance.  “And the award-winning restaurant he’s going to open.”

“To Lance finishing his first year at Altech,” volunteers Pidge.

“To reunions.”

“To this little guy.”

“You’re toasting my plant?”

“What? I like him; he’s cute,” defends Lance.

And then all of them are setting their drinks down, limbs loosened by the spark of good food and good company.  Lance starts it with a shimmy of his shoulders, a swift glide across the deck.  Music plays from Hunk’s speakers, and he’s got his old crew back, touch and go, reentering orbit.  He makes Hunk dip him salsa-dance style, then holds his arm out for Pidge to twirl under.  With Pidge sandwiched between them, he and Hunk try to waltz; they get five paces in before Pidge complains they’re smothering her, so then it’s square-dancing instead.  Around and around and around, carrying on like the dizzy stars they are, until eventually the three of them are just hugging each other, shoulders heaving with laughter.

“Oh, man, I missed you guys,” says Hunk, wiping tears from his eyes and stepping back to take a breath.  “I’m going to set up the pull-out couch—do you guys need towels or anything for tonight?”

“Nah, I’m good.  I’ll shower in the morning,” says Lance.

“Okay.  Pidge?”

“I’ll take the shower. I’ll be inside in a minute.”

“Got it.”  The screen door slides shut behind Hunk as he heads off to ready the bathroom for Pidge. 

After he’s gone, Pidge crosses back to the railing of the balcony, resting her forearms on it.  The city lights catch on the droplet earrings she’s wearing.  In the silence, Lance inches closer, propping himself up on his elbows, the warm wood pressing against his spine.  It’s a cloudless night; he squints up at the moon.

“Lance.”  Pidge’s voice draws his attention.

He tilts his head.  “What’s up?”

She’s giving him that look again, the one where it feels like she’s measuring him up against some other blueprint.  An earlier version of himself, maybe.

“Why’d you ask me here?”

Blunt and to the point.  A Pidge with a hypothesis is not someone to be trifled with, and Lance swallows, treading carefully.

“Because,” he says jovially.  “It’s _Hunk._ He’s graduating from culinary school.  I thought you’d want to be there for it.”

Pidge weighs his words, considering.  “Hunk invited me himself, you know,” she finally admits.

Lance shouldn’t be surprised.  While in space, Hunk had been the sticky glue holding them all together; it only makes sense that he’d have kept his arms outstretched.  But now Lance can’t help wondering: how long had Hunk known about his and Pidge’s reunion?  Or maybe he hadn’t come up in conversation at all.  That thought stings worse.

“I didn’t know you guys kept in touch.”

Pidge shrugs.  “Here and there.  Not everyone went AWOL on me.”  She’s teasing, but there’s a truth to it, and Lance tries to keep from flinching.

Out loud, he protests.  “I did _not_ go AWOL.  AWOL is Shiro and Keith—they’re the ones who are, like, space nomads.”

“Still.” Pidge turns and Lance turns with her so that they’re face to face, Pidge staring up at him, scrutinizing.  “Lance, be honest.  Was it just a chore to you, keeping in touch back then?  Because it felt like things were good with us and then you just dropped contact and I spent months wondering if I’d… _spooked_ you or something into thinking I was still pining for you.  And then I felt guilty.  And then I got _mad,_ because it’s not your job to protect me from my feelings, whatever they are.  I know what I want.”

It’s the first time they’ve talked so directly about the aftermath of— _everything—_ and Lance realizes that despite the number of times he’s braced himself for this conversation, he isn’t actually prepared.

“You and I always bonded better through action,” he justifies weakly.  “It was hard to relate that sort of stuff through a screen.”

“You still could have said something about it.  Instead of dropping off the face of the earth.”

“Please.” Lance scoffs.  “Like I would have been that hard to find again, if you’d really wanted to.  There’s not a system in the universe that the great Katie Holt can’t hack.”

“I was trying to respect your privacy!”

“Oh, yeah?  Well, how about now, Pidge?  I know you’re asking all these questions to try and get at something else; you’re not exactly being _subtle._ ”

Clamming up, Pidge’s cheeks flush red.  “I thought we were over this,” she says.  “I thought—things were back to normal, and now you’re starting to tiptoe again, and I don’t know why.  Whatever it is, you can _tell_ me, Lance.  You keep looking out for me like I’m your little sister or something, but we’re _friends,_ and friends should be honest with each other.”

There it is again, another tiny nail in the coffin around his heart.  Friends are honest with each other, except for when the truth sounds more like: _I don’t want to be friends, and I realized too late, and now it’s my cross to bear. I want to hold you forever; I never should have let you go._

“Pidge.”  His voice is tight.  “It’s not… there’s just stuff I’m still working through, okay? And it’s not your concern right now.  When there’s something to tell, I’ll tell you.”  He offers a placating smile.  “So can we please not fight anymore?”

Pidge stares at him hard, searching.  “All right,” she finally relents.  “Fine.”

“Hug it out?”

It’s a cheap move and Lance knows it.  Sue him, for being selfish.  The color is still high in Pidge’s cheeks, and Lance soaks in the image with fondness. She never was very good at hiding her annoyance with him.

Biting her lip, Pidge steps closer, then burrows deeper into his arms.

“You’re still a lousy arguer,” she grumbles, muffled against his chest.

“Mhmm.”

“And I’m going to hold you to it.  The whole truth thing.”

“Pidge.” Lance laughs.  “Let it rest.” 

A huff, and she goes still.  Lance closes his eyes, basking in the sensation of having her tucked under his chin.  Younger days, when he could just plop on the ground and curl himself over her shoulder as she typed away on whatever computer project she was working on.  Before they’d had a word for the thing between them, when he could still pass it off as a gesture of platonic intimacy.  When had the line become so hard to walk?

“All right, that’s long enough, I need to go shower,” Pidge says eventually, wriggling out of his grip.  She turns away so quickly it’s hard to read her expression. 

Only later, after the screen door slides shut for a second time, does Lance notice the wet spot on his shirt, exactly where Pidge had pressed her face.

 

*

 

Lance has this thing he does, where he tries to rein himself back from wanting too much.  When he first applied for the Garrison, he wouldn’t stop talking about it: all the planes he was going to fly, the ladies he was going to charm.  As the days got closer to the acceptance date, though, he became uncharacteristically quiet.  Only once he held the official paper in his hands did it feel like he could breathe again, and then it was back to the grand declarations, because now they were possible; they were _real._

In the aftermath of his half-argument with Pidge, a door opens.  Just a sliver, but enough to make him wonder: maybe he hasn’t been the only one putting up a front.

But he doesn’t dare hope.

So he goes quiet instead.

He’s on his third week of avoidance when Hunk calls him, the tablet lighting up the inside of his bedroom as Lance dives for it, flopping backwards onto his cushions as he brings up the screen.

“Lance, what are you doing,” is the first thing out of Hunk’s mouth.

Lance frowns.  “Answering your call…?”

“No.” Hunk huffs.  “With _Pidge._   She’s upset, Lance—she thinks you’re disappearing on her again, even though something about how you all had a talk on my balcony about this, and you promised you wouldn’t?”

Lance closes his eyes.  _Shit._   “I’m not disappearing.  I’m just… taking a break.  Things are weird right now.  I thought I had them figured out, but it’s messier than that, and I just needed to take a step back—”

“They’re only messy because you’re making them that way.”

That stops him in his tracks.  His heart stutters, then picks up speed like a revving engine.  Narrowing his eyes, Lance says: “Hunk, is there something you know that you’re not telling me?”

“Look, Lance…”  Hunk heaves a sigh.  “I’m not here to play Cupid between the two of you.  I only stepped in because… whatever it is you’re wrestling with, I think you’re selling yourself short.  You know what you want.  And deep down, you know what Pidge wants, too.  The only thing holding you back is habit.  You know what I think?  You like having a Thing.  A dedicated role that you know how to fill.  With Voltron it was hero, sharpshooter, right-hand man—all that stuff.  And right now with Pidge, it’s friend.  Which makes sense—that’s what you’re good at; that’s why you’ve stayed _my_ best friend, all these years.  But just because that’s the spot you’ve carved out for yourself doesn’t mean you have to spend the rest of your life there.  People change, Lance.  You’re allowed to want something more.”

Something more.  Something beyond a lonely Altean castle rattling its way through the void of space.  Something that found him again, in a cheesy backyard barbecue, just when he thought he’d spend the rest of his life looking.  

Blinking, Lance says, “How long have you been saving up that speech?”

“Long enough.  Enough with the hiding your head in the sand.  That was always my thing, anyways.”

Lance laughs, short and bright.  A weight lifted.  “Nah, Hunk, we all knew you were the bravest one of us.” 

   

*

 

Saturday morning, Lance returns from the coffee shop around the corner to find Pidge sitting on the stoop of his apartment, chin in her hands.  The instinctual part of him, not yet fully buried, thinks _avoid,_ but he shoves it aside.

Instead, he collapses on the step right below her, stretching his legs out into the sidewalk.

“Pidge,” he says, sipping his drink and tilting his head back to look at her, “are you stalking me?”

“You’re in a mood today,” Pidge comments.  “Does this mean you’re done avoiding me?”

Setting his cup down, he turns his body so that his cheek hovers near her knee—close enough to rest against the worn fabric of her jeans, if he chooses.  His entire body is a kite string, stretched tight and humming with anticipation, waiting to be reeled in.

“Sorry.  I was trying not to be obvious about it.”

Pidge frowns.  There’s that familiar furrow between her eyes, the one she gets when faced with a particularly perplexing problem.  It delights him to no end, that he can still be one of her puzzles.

“Why?” asks Pidge, after a weighted silence.  “Why were you hiding from me?”

“I’ll answer on one condition.”  When Pidge nods for him to continue, he says, “At Hunk’s, you said you knew what you wanted.  So what do you want from me, Pidge?” His voice goes softer.  “Because I’ll be that.”

“I want you to be in love with me back.” Pidge says it so fast and so low Lance almost misses it.  “I thought I could ignore it, but you just—you just sneak back in, Lance, and if you run away again this time, I swear to God—”

“Pidge—” Lance reaches out to cup her face, to wipe at the angry tears forming in the corners of her eyes.

“Let me finish, you moron!” She rubs her nose but doesn’t bat his hands away, and that’s a start.  “You just—before, it was this whole spiel about how you wanted me to see the world and meet other people, or whatever.  Well, newsflash, Lance: when I was with you, we saw entire galaxies.  I met a freaking race of nature techno-wizards, okay?  I was never settling, even when you thought I was, and I’ve been back here for three years and you know what?  I still want _you._ ”

His breath hitches.  “You have me, Pidge.  You've had me for a while, now.”

“You’re a jerk, you know that?” Sniffling, Pidge lets him move closer so that they’re sharing the same step, knees knocking against each other.  She’s so small that he could pull her into his lap.  “That’s twice now that I’ve had to be the one to confess.”

Lance means to laugh, but it gets caught in his throat. Shaky, like a leaf before falling.  “I know.  I’m sorry.  Can you forgive me?”

“For this?”

“For everything.  For taking so long.”  Pidge’s hairline brushes the top of his; he presses their foreheads together.

“Maybe.” Pidge’s voice is grudging, but still that inordinate fondness underneath it, like a nugget of buried gold.  “If you kiss me like you mean it.”

“Done,” Lance murmurs, fingers already sliding around to cradle the base of Pidge’s head.  None of the urgency of their very first kiss; this one has all the time in the world, a second chance years in the making.  Gently, Lance tries to alter their angle, tugging on the silky locks of Pidge’s new cut.

The ends are short, but that doesn’t matter.

Some things—like hair, like love _—_ grow back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ty everyone for your patience!!! also wow s/o to plance breaking into the top 20 on fandometrics on tumblr since like, the last time this updated - we've come so far as a ship :') anyways you can find me over on [tumblr](http://amillionsmiles.tumblr.com) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/mnonoaware) where I'm continually crying about these two.


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